


ain't misbehaving

by IuvenesCor



Series: Old Works and WIPs [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Banter, Detectives, F/M, Gen, literal trigger warning as there are guns present, some violence, there's a lot of flirting but this is kinda mostly pre-ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: Mr. Smith and Ms. Song. One's an awkward private eye, one's an adventuring socialite with too much time on her hands, and both are in a lot of trouble.
Relationships: The Doctor & River Song
Series: Old Works and WIPs [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022838
Kudos: 4





	ain't misbehaving

**Author's Note:**

> To think I wrote this back when Eleven was still the current Doctor, wow.
> 
> Uh, this is very old. It was originally supposed to be part of this whole big noir AU, and this fic was like a prequel deal, but as per usual, I had big dreams and tiny follow through. But I still love this one, and hey, why not post it. 
> 
> (Officially unofficial blame to truthtakestime, who definitely coerced me into making noir AUs like this one, cos they’re great, but also I’m bad at them and she’s much better. xP)
> 
> (Oh and Merry Christmas/Happy Friday, for what’s left of it. <3)

The sole redeeming quality of a dark alley was… well, nothing, actually. John had wracked his brain, searching for anything that could possibly make the shadowy cut-throughs nice, and his answers were nil. Nothing friendly came from an alley, or from getting pulled into one, for that matter.

John’s boots skidded on the concrete as he attempted to continue along his way— his _entirely_ innocent, well-intentioned way. But it is hard to walk straight, or even walk properly to begin with, when a wholly unanticipated hand grabs your jacket and tries to send you careening sideways. To the detective’s dismay, the hand’s attempt was a successful one and, combined with his efforts to flee, launched him into a dizzying twirl, a sudden collision, and a nasty start to a headache.

What he had collided with was a pair of lips; obviously, it was more than just the lips (how disturbing would that be?), but they were the very first thing he noticed apart from the hand on his shoulder. He squirmed, trying to twist away, but escaping was harder done than said. 

Now, he wondered, realizing that he was thoroughly trapped, what kind of alley-lurking mugger would attack their victim with _kisses?_

He concentrated on the lips and the kisses— not because he particularly wanted to, but because it was terribly hard to focus on much else— and came to the decision that something was very familiar. Well, some _things_ , rather: the taste of a certain lipstick, the manner of a certain woman’s kisses, the profile of a certain face that was pressed a little too close to his. It was _déjà vu_ from a moment reasonably less awkward than this. But still, he doubted. Could it _really_ be—?

The sensation of a slender hand exiting his back trouser pocket snapped John out of his ambivalence. Strategizing, he kissed his assailant pseudo-passionately in return. The act caught the woman by surprise, allowing him to reach for her arm, tracing down to her wrist, and press carefully on her joints. Her grip loosened just enough for him to reclaim his worn leather wallet and push away.

“Naughty!” he scolded, shaking off his shock. He tried to project himself as stern, but the plain absurdity of the situation left him feeling rather overwhelmed.

Those dastardly lips smiled back at him from under the shadow of an old fedora. “Well, I’m quite lucky— caught a good kisser on the first try.”

He sighed as if it were a chore to do so. River Song always did seem to have a perfectly horrendous quip for most occasions.

“What are you doing here, loitering in a dark alleyway?” he demanded.

“I’d like to ask the same.”

“Yes, well, you’re the one who _attacked me,_ so I think I have the right to know.”

River leaned against the building behind her, crossing her legs. “You might not like it.”

“I don’t like it already!” he retorted.

The woman shrugged. “All right. I needed to obtain a member’s card for the _Petrichor_. And ‘why do you need a card?’ you ask,” she added upon noting his stare growing more bewildered. “Because something of mine is inside and I would very much like it back.”

John tucked his wallet back into his pocket, hardly trusting River wouldn’t try snatching it again. “Like what? Enlighten me.”

“Money. Isn’t that what all the girls are after?” she grinned.

“Well, tell me how your money is suddenly inside a men’s club, and how exactly you intended to walk all around a _men’s club_ with a stolen membership card.”

“I played cards against the owner of the club a few nights back. Walter Simeon. Dreadful man. Trust me, it wasn’t a fair game.”

“How so?”

The smile returned. “Well, he wasn’t the only one trying to play against the rules then.”

John huffed. “No honor among thieves, I suppose.”

“I suppose not.” The mysterious mood colouring her expression gave way to curiosity. “Now you owe me an explanation.”

“I…” He hesitated. Did he really want to be revealing delicate plans to an on-again, off-again flame? To be fair, it didn’t seem he had much choice. He could be a wonderful liar, but it was hard to play against a woman skilled in calling the bluff. He’d learned that the hard way. “I might have been tipped off to a little cache of illegal arms previously owned by the _Luftwaffe_ , belonging to the same man who cheated you. There’s this nifty little spy camera that I just recently… _acquired,_ so I thought I might take some photographic evidence.”

River nodded, as if she had already read his thoughts and simply wanted to test him on his honesty; but something more was on her mind. 

“Where did you get your membership card?”

The PI shifted nervously. He would have preferred to stick to convincing himself and others that everything in this plan was entirely legal and not at all suspicious. “My secretary had it handy,” he said, and nothing more.

To his good fortune, she hadn’t asked for anything beyond that. Instead, she replied, “Good. That means that my plan is even more likely to work— pending on your help, of course. But you will help, won’t you, Mr. Smith?”

He squinted, wary. “Help _how?_ ”

If there was anything more concerning than a dark alley, it was the devilish smile of River Song.

“Let me tell you.”

The plan, as it so happened, was far less fiendish than River might have him believe at first. Uncomfortable, yes— John never precisely enjoyed the undercover aspect of investigation, especially when all the cards he held were suddenly trumped by another’s— but it was bearable nonetheless. 

He thought to thank River at some point in the future for actually making his job very easy. One would think that smuggling a woman into a strictly men’s club would be a complicated task (well, depending on the sort of woman she was). Apparently, the opposite held true, for with some well-timed words and a few well-placed pound notes many women had, according to River’s research, breached both the regulations and the doors; and if any woman in England had a crafty tongue or a deep purse, River certainly could— and would— show them all up. So, following that strain of logic, their entrance was effortless: all it took were the flashes of his illegal member’s card and her positively criminal smile. As the pair moved through the moody club, no one raised any questions; perhaps they judged this down-dressed man and his mystifying date through their fashion choices, but nothing more. 

The wonderful thing about conducting surveillance at a leisure spot was exactly that: leisure. No one wants to expect anything is awry when he is having a good time, to the extent that one will often disregard the out-of-place and unusual just to facilitate the pleasures. Understanding (and exploiting) such typical human behavior was a useful tactic.

To shake off any remaining pretenses of suspicious behavior, the two investigators did what any normal couple would do at a nightclub: visit the bar, sit very close together, and listen to the on-stage performances while sharing little talks. (John was not entirely prepared for or comfortable with one of these things, but he managed.) 

“So,” said River after a sip of pinot blanc, “how’s the business?”

“Fine. And how’s… your… thing?”

She wore a laughing smile, now. She must have owned fifty variations of a smile in her arsenal ever since John had happened upon her back in the day. “You mean ogling antiques and gambling with strange men?”

John shook his head blithely. “I’ll take that as _pretty good._ ”

They both silenced themselves with their wine, leading the PI to subtly eye the few doors that interrupted the walls of the club. He almost shied away when River’s shoe brushed against his ankle, but something led him to look her way and follow the guidance of her eyes— she had been searching as well. Her stare brought him to the farthest door in a certain corridor half-shrouded by darkness. From an outsider’s perspective, their focus returned to their drinks, but a mutual glance thrown to one another left them in agreement. It was time to plan the next phase of their little stratagem.

“Now,” he murmured, “the only question is, how do we get in and out unseen?” 

River positively glowed, patting his leg. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve got some thoughts on that.”

Despite his better judgment against blind trust, John found himself smiling, too.

The plan was not glamourous, but it was sufficient.

Their path first came to a false stop at the lavatories, then continued on with a blasé stroll down the hall. They walked close beside each other, as intimately as their acquaintanceship would allow, giving off the artificial air of certain other dark-room intentions should anyone bother looking at them. River guided John through the entrance of the club performers’ dressing room— which was really nothing but a shabby vanity and a costume rack on the inside— and halted at a sturdy but aging door.

“I don’t suppose you have any lock picks on you?” she asked innocently.

John shrugged and lifted his left leg, removing his boot and sliding his fingers along the inside until he felt the touch of two small filaments. The astonished grin on River’s face bolstered his pride considerably.

“You’re closer to the other side of the law than I thought,” she dared.

“Oh, I’m still a good man,” he defended, peering and poking at the lock. “I just have a hard time following all of the rules. Not to say it isn’t a fault, mind you— just a fact.” The lock clicked in surrender; he nudged open the door and spread his arm outward. “After you, Ms. Song.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” was River’s answer, topped by a wink. She strolled in with the grace of a goddess and the ever questionable intentions of such. 

John followed, catching the door behind him and closing it, perhaps too soon, plunging him and his partner (he supposed he could consider her such for the time being) into the ominous dark. They were met with the rumble of boilers sending vibrations through the hard floor beneath them; the thunder-like hum was enough to mask even a stage whisper. 

“So,” John muttered above the racket, trying to ignore the taste of dust and mildew floating about, “We stay until the club is closed. Yes?”

He assumed that right about then, River nodded and very likely said _yes._

“And how do we know when to come out? What if we move too soon?”

He strained at what he assumed was a soft reply. 

“What?”

With a stifled yelp, he jerked away from the hand that landed on his shoulder. 

“I _said,_ it’s all luck from here on out,” his cohort stressed.

John wasn’t paying very much attention to her answers anymore. “Could you not do that?”

If River had sighed, the sound was likely his imagination; but real or fake, it rang loudly in his mind. “Maybe you should look for the light switch and we wouldn’t have these problems.”

“ _Fine._ ” He began to claw around for a wall, but as he did so, a small detail snagged his thoughts. Stopping, he demanded, “Hold on, how did you know I was right there?” 

“Because,” came the reply bluntly, “you are very loud.”

With an inhale, he was prepared to protest; but instead he huffed, put his mind to the task at hand (and his hands to the wall) and peevishly mumbled, “My volume is perfect, thank you… Ah!” He fingered a small plastic knob and flipped it upwards, causing a bulb to flicker into view. “Let there be light!”

Finally, he could see River roll her eyes— though even in the darkness, he might have told you that she did.

There was a lot of sitting involved.

Well, for John, anyway; he sat cross-legged, reading _The Body in the Library_ (it had been a surprise to River that he could stash away such a hefty book in his coat), while River stood against a wall and stared at the machinery that filled the room. After they had spent at least an hour and a half in these states, John began to realize that he, for once, was not the most impatient person in a situation. Of course, River appeared calm and collected ( _and beautiful_ ) from the outside, but each time his eyes pulled away from the narrative and met her face, he could read the unspoken complaints beneath the surface. He certainly didn’t blame her for that, but boredom was such an odd look on her. For every day he saw her, he had never seen her sans liveliness and charm; now, it seemed as if she were going as far as brooding.

It was a curious thing that made him more curious still.

In time, the detective realized he had been staring— rather, River realized it first— and the act had taken her out from under the canopy of her silent and solitary storm cloud. She grinned, satisfied, and as if to say _caught you looking._ John grimaced and used the book to block out her teasing smile in response. 

(And then, once he knew that she’d gotten bored with taunting him, he looked over the top of the page one last time and stared just for a little longer.)

Quite suddenly, John found that there was a high-heeled shoe poking him in the ribs.

He edged away like an angry cat, staring up at the owner of that shoe, scowling. River only chuckled, though not loudly enough for him to hear. 

“You were sleeping.”

“No! I was… _meditating,_ big difference.”

The woman shrugged one shoulder. “Whatever you say, Sweetie.”

“Hm?” John had stopped, half sitting and half standing, and raised an eyebrow. “Did you just call me _Sweetie?_ ”

“Yes,” she said. “Is that a crime?”

“Well— no, no, of course not, you just— never mind that, what’s going on?”

River smoothed out her dress as she waited for him to stand. “It’s time that we finish the job.”

“ _Jobs._ I’m not responsible for what you do in that office, all right?”

“Of course.”

Her answer was the farthest thing from genuine, but it would have to do. John dutifully returned his book to his breast pocket and approached the utility closet’s door. As River turned out the light, he swung the door out into the blackness of the dressing room, screwing his eyes shut until they adjusted; it did not keep him from slamming his thigh against the vanity, but he hobbled along well enough to the doorway.

“Which way, again?” he asked, trying not to grimace.

“Turn left.”

“Right.”

“Oh, you think you’re so clever.”

“Yes, thank you for recognizing that.” 

They navigated the shadowy halls, utilizing memory more than sight to guide them to the office. River walked with some distance between her and John, checking twice at every corner of the building. (Was she expecting someone to still be there? Why couldn’t she have mentioned that beforehand?) But to their shared relief, the pair arrived at their destination undeterred; after a picked lock and a long, mischievous pause shared, they slipped into the forbidden room.

By way of both moonlight and outside streetlight, the décor of the office was sufficiently seen: a settee with a nearby coffee table to the left, a stocky safe to the right, and a desk and chair front and center. Their best bet was to inspect the safe— they both knew that perfectly well, with no need for consultation. Crossing the rich carpet, they knelt at the safe, examining it with the utmost scrutiny. It did not take long for John to pull his attention from the safe and place it onto River. She caught on quickly. 

“Why do I have to do all the hard work?” she complained, half-hearted.

“Because,” John said, “I don’t know anything about cracking safes. Doors, yes, but not safes.”

“And you think that I do?” she challenged with an incredulous levitating eyebrow. 

“Well, I’ve sort of got the impression that you do this type of thing quite a lot.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“How? If I may be so bold, Miss Song, you are the stereotype of your average scoundrel.”

“Thank you very much.”

He developed a lopsided grin. “Did I say that was a compliment?”

River seemed to consider that for a moment. “No. But I do.” The woman’s eyes twinkled despite the shadowed night, a glimmer that was just enough to both terrify and intrigue. “Go look over the desk and see if you can’t find anything. I’ll handle the safe.”

John was obliged to obey, finding himself at the desk with a few small strides. He squinted at the papers atop the finished surface, careful to preserve their current status. They delivered very little on the information front: only a scattered newspaper with a half-completed crossword puzzle, one or two utility bills, and a small stack of business cards— all of which he had something of a difficult time reading, due to the lack of sufficient lighting. Disappointing, all of it (including the apparently small vocabulary of the _Petrichor’s_ owner. Twelve down was obviously _quiescence._ ) With a sigh, he reached for the drawers. Perhaps something hid in there?

_Bang! Bang!_

John nearly hit the floor, his hands gravitating to his head. Thoughts of fear and survival raced through his head, quick as the gunshots that still sent the air ringing with the clang of metal on metal. Somewhat unreasonably, he crept toward the end of the desk and peered around its corner, fearing what he might come across on the other side.

Though it was still terrifying to see, River’s raised eyebrow and laughing smirk was a comfort. She casually blew on the barrel of her pistol and tucked the weapon back into the holster sitting a few inches above her knee. (In a way, he was glad he never noticed it.) After sustaining a kick to its still-smoking lock, the safe door cracked open.

John gaped.

“Wha—? Well—! You might’ve, oh, I don’t know, _warned_ me about that before!” he sputtered.

“You _did_ leave opening the safe to me. I honestly can’t believe you’re so surprised.”

Oh, how her nonchalant attitude could really be grating sometimes; somehow, it had taken him until now to really understand this. Grumbling, he said, “I can! Were you ever thinking of telling me you had a gun this whole time?”

“Once.” River shrugged. “But then I thought that you might overestimate the situation, so I decided to wait on that.”

John could believe his ears entirely— that was the problem. He tried to form articulate words, but all attempts came out as frustrated syllables. “Fine,” he eventually squeaked. “But don’t pull anymore surprises, or I will… never speak to you again.” 

With a warm smile, River crossed her heart. “Now,” she said, kneeling down again, “let’s see what our friend has in his safe. Shall we?”

Her fingers curled around the damaged door, prying it open. In the dimness, he could not see what she grasped at inside the safe; he stood, trying for a better angle of vision on the off chance that it would help, but it was worthless. His associate shifted her weight several times, as if straining to see as well; but the final shift left her facing him. Her hands reverently offered up the fruits of their labors: two sleek pistols and a neatly bound stack of notes.

“Fantastic,” John beamed, neatly snatching one of the former from River’s grasp and drifting towards the window. He twirled the firearm this way and that, checking off his mental list of criterion, running his fingers down its length. “Serial number— entirely scratched off, no surprise there. Correct make. Matches exactly what we’re looking for.” The man was nothing but smiles as he began to turn toward River. “And what about—”

A light flashed on.

“—you?” 

River’s arm was as stiff as a ramrod; her eyes, staring elsewhere, as cold and set as marble; her gun, as much a part of her as any single portion of her body. It took a moment for John’s mind to catch up with his vision, but once it had, he swallowed a gasp.

“Oh,” he mumbled to the man at the door. “Hello.”

John was entirely disregarded; the man’s eyes and sight were pointed toward River. His brows were cocked back much like the hammer of his pistol (an exact replica of the one John was now holding and entirely neglecting to take advantage of), his expression utterly emotionless. 

“Miss Song. I’d like to say that it’s a surprise to find you here, but it really isn’t,” he said. 

River tossed her head carelessly. “I wonder if that isn’t because you realized you’d be called at your game, Simeon.”

The laugh was contradictory, mirthless yet amused. “I’m not here to banter and mince words. I’d suggest that you return everything to its place.”

“Oh, I would love to see you make me.”

“Am I being too vague?” the club owner queried. “I am giving you the chance to forget all of this of your own free will. Don’t be stubborn.”

John held in a chuckle. “That might be a problem, you see. She’s stubborn as they come.”

It took less than three seconds for John to hate his big fat mouth, and it all was entirely due to the barrel he was now facing down.

Simeon stood regally, like an austere monument. “I’ll rephrase myself, Miss Song: don’t be stubborn, or your accomplice will be familiar with the taste of lead.”

“I have a gun!” John retorted, shaking the pistol with emphasis, never minding the barrel was pointing at himself. 

“And do you really think you’ll use it?”

“I know eight uses for a gun other than shooting— or is it nine? No, eight, definitely eight.”

“Really? Well, you’ll have to educate me about it someday.” The man maintained his dry stare towards John. “An answer, Miss Song.”

“Answer…?” Her tone was simmering. “Here’s one.”

John dodged as far away from Simeon once he realized his distraction had been enough for River to take a chance. The detective was just able to spy his partner from the corner of his eye as she darted forward and wrenched the club owner’s wrist. Simeon hollered, unable to keep his grip on his pistol, and was quickly twisted into a vulnerable position, arm held at an unsustainable angle behind his back. Despite his pain, he remained remarkably stone-faced River, having caught his firearm before it hit the floor, placed the barrel against his temple.

“Sorry, dear, but when it comes to me, no one cheats and gets away with it.” Her grin reappeared as she added, “Just ask all my exes.” With a fleeting glance toward John her gloating had ended. “Ready, Sweetie?”

Conveniently, in the incredibly brief section of time allotted from the moment that River gained the upper hand until now, John had remembered his priorities— those that were not immediately focused on living, anyway— and, after a slight bit of fidgeting, had retrieved his camera from his other breast pocket. It took only a matter of seconds before his pictures were taken, at which point he nodded and, after wiping down and returning the weapon to the safe, edged toward the door, warily eyeing Simeon.

River did not appear to feel as threatened by the subdued club owner. “Goodbye, Walter. Hope it’s the last.”

The man’s lip finally curled in anger as they slipped away.

Unfortunately, the two trespassers’ victory was short lived.

Both were so heavily concentrated on one of two things— the office or the exit— that they neglected to notice the men flanking the stage until a bullet nearly dislodged River’s fedora from her head. They ran very, _very_ quickly through the first half of the room before taking shelter behind the bar. 

Apparently, destroying their employer’s lounge was not a concern of the heavily armed lackeys; glass shattered, wood splintered, and alcohol gushed from the shelves behind the counter. River shook her head in frustration, displacing tiny bottle fragments from her hat’s brim. Holding tight to her two pistols, she reached into the depths of her coat and retrieved another pistol that looked suspiciously like another member of Simeon’s collection.

She caught John’s stare and sighed. “I didn’t want it to go to waste,” she excused flippantly, shoving the handle in his direction. “Now let’s make it useful.”

“Ah, that’s all right, you can handle it. Can’t you?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like guns,” she implored, rising to get off a shot.

“Fine. I won’t tell you.”

The woman groaned as she sank down again. “If we die, I’m blaming you!”

John twisted his face into a pout, despite trying earnestly to think of a way to be useful. “Me! Why don’t we just blame _them?_ ” No response came due to a spike in concentration, so the PI was left to answer himself. “Yes, let’s blame the big men with the guns.”

The standoff was brief— nothing but a _tête à tête_ of bullets from both sides (and a barrage of wine bottles courtesy of John) — until River was forced to abandon one of her purloined firearms and the bartender’s pistol that she found tucked under the counter. Quickly, she slid over to John and began to push him towards the door. “You have to run for it. Can you do that for me?”

“Who, me? I was _born_ to run.”

The grin that cracked through seemed to be an accident. “No time to boast, Sweetie.”

John stared at her again, watching the shine of adrenaline and entirely improper amusement set her eyes aglow. With the quirk of a daring smile and a nervous twiddle of his bowtie, he turned toward the door and slunk to the end of the bar.

What happened beyond that was lost in a blur of excitement and _what the_ hell _am I doing?_ , but as he desperately swerved in and out through the tables, doubting his chances of survival, the gunshots continued. A deep, strangled groan slipped out from somewhere in the room, and he silently cheered River’s marksmanship before diving behind the decorative wall that separated the club from the foyer. Gathering a few harried breaths, he glanced at the door, the bar, the slowly advancing men, and the door once more. Then, slowly, like the dealing of a deck of cards, a realization fell into place.

Beyond this, he had no clue what River’s plan was.

He was at the door and she was at the bar. He was being tracked by one man, from the looks of it, while she was facing the wrath of the other two. He could provide no cover and she had provided him with exactly as much cover as he needed. He was within the reaches of freedom and she was stuck.

 _She’s protecting me_ , he thought. _Only sort of knows me, and yet she’s giving me the upper hand._

Lead slugs riddled the walls behind and before him; glass still shattered, wood still splintered. Hurried glances told of an opportunity to leave this mess— reason demanded that he take advantage of it. So he clambered back up to his feet as the men’s attentions remained divided; he darted to the exit, ignored the shout at his back and the ever-closer bullet holes, and with a guilty ache in his chest, he ran.

He _ran,_ though he very much wanted to protect River. But what could he do? Oh, there was probably a list of a million things he could do, but not one of those solutions came to mind. She had wanted him to run, hadn’t she? She had gifted him with a head start; wouldn’t it be positively wicked of him to throw away that chance? 

_Not if it would save her._

Why did they have to be so headstrong? Why did they have to meet tonight— a man and a woman who both had a bent towards adventure and espionage and investigation and the wild beauty of it all—? Why did River Song have to be so flirtatious and aggravating and wonderful and, for once in the whole span of their revolving relationship, selfless?

Why was he running like a bloody coward when there were better, nobler things to be done?

And then, just then, he knew that it had to stop. He would go back. He would save her. He would scold her endlessly and then, just maybe, kiss her madly. (It was that sort of day.) He was not going to let her down, no matter whose fault all of this nonsense was. 

John was going to save her.

But quite suddenly, he was not.

It was meant for his spine, he assumed. If he hadn’t given himself that rousing inward speech and challenged his cowardice— if he hadn’t turned those two steps around— the searing lump of metal would have found his spine perfectly. Of course, he was very fortunate that he _had_ turned and that the bullet _had_ missed its destination. But luck was not on his mind as his insides twisted with regret of the most painful kind, as the air left his lungs and his stomach clenched. 

As the bullet burned, he blinked, eyes mostly unfocused on the man who stood at the lip of the alley— the same alley John had run down, the same alley where this whole affair started. John remembered the shock of River’s kisses as his legs turned to water, remembered the touch of her troublesome fingers as he weakly clutched his bleeding side.

He remembered the adrenaline and the amusement— and now, recollected through his pain, the undeniable fear that he had somehow overlooked in the midst of the madness— behind the bar. He remembered every beautiful and terrible and indescribable little moment as he slowly drowned in a fog of panic and unconsciousness.

John Smith clung to all the things that would keep him from dying a coward.

And then, something was tapping his cheek.

“Oh, wake up! You can’t just go _dying_ on me— what am I ever supposed to do without you?”

His eyes snapped open out of reflex, vision blurred and strained. 

“Oh, thank God,” breathed the familiar voice, “you’re alive. Did know that already, but still: cause for celebrating. Not that I could ever let you go so well before your time.” Something soft landed on his forehead— lips, they were _lips,_ different but still familiar lips— followed by a gentle stroking of his shoulder by a careful hand.

John saw who it was well before he recognized her, but that came in time.

“Idris?” he croaked, hardly hearing his own voice over the whelp of departing sirens. Breathing laboriously, he tried to force out several more syllables with little luck.

His dear friend shushed him, pursing her lips sternly. “I told you that it wasn’t a good time to chase after Simeon, and what do you do? You run off and do it anyway— and get shot! You idiot.” 

“Ma’am, we ought to get him to hospital right away,” objected a voice from behind John’s head. He realized that he was on an ambulance cot and— with the stabbing pain in his abdomen— began to thoroughly enjoy the thought of being on his way to any hospital. 

“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea,” Idris said, nodding. “Get to it, then! You—” She pointed at John sharply. “I expect a long conversation with you later.”

The man could merely nod and watch his secretary disappear before the traumatic lethargy pulled him back to sleep.

“Before you say anything more, where’s River?”

Idris stood in the doorway, blinking at John’s interjection. He had been awake and out of surgery for a good hour or more, and every thought in his mind echoed those same words. “I didn’t say anything yet,” his secretary replied. “You could at least let me say hello. Now, who’s River? Wait!” She put a finger to her lips. “Isn’t that the one you always talk about? Head of hair like a maniac and flirts like a starlet?”

“Yes,” John answered slowly, reclined in his hospital bed; he was still attempting to shake off the blur of the anaesthetics. His head was spinning with questions that could never be answered quickly enough. “Did you see her? Did you look inside the club? Was she—?”

“Stop it,” Idris commanded. “I don’t have to be the investigator to know what’s running through that thick head of yours. She’s not dead, John.”

 _Thank God._ River was alive. Probably. Knowing her moxie, she might have already gotten herself in another dangerous situation. But something told Idris that River was not yet dead, and that was proof enough— enough to bring his mind to other things.

“So…” The man cleared his throat, though it accomplished little. “Tell me what I missed.”

“Not too sure. You see, I came up to the _Petrichor_ to investigate.”

“Investigate what?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes! You didn’t leave a note and you never came back, so I thought the worst. But of course, I knew you had to be doing something I told you not to because if anything else had happened you would have left a clue. So I knew that you must have gone to the _Petrichor,_ and that is exactly where I went. I squatted in the abandoned building next door and waited.”

John squinted at his secretary. “How long were you there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Hour, two hours? Time’s funny. Where was I? Ah— waiting there, searching for any sign of you, and all of the sudden I hear this terrible, muffled gunfight. I knew the guns weren’t you, but they had to be _because of_ you; so, I found the nearest phone box and rang the police right away. 

“Then I see you, running down an alley, and this angry fellow chasing you, followed after— oh, that was River, wasn’t it? With the funny hair. And she was being chased after by another man, but the police arrived before he hardly had the chance to leave the building. I run down to the alley as that River runs out, and I find that one gentleman dead and you all floppy and unconscious. A lot of things happened after that— not too sure— but the ambulance made it down and after that, you woke up.”

“And then you yelled at me,” John noted. 

“I still mean to. You could have at least consulted with me, or otherwise tried to make it less likely for you to die—”

John wasn’t concentrated on his scolding; he thought instead about the story he had just been told. Retellings could often be inaccurate, especially when the storyteller had very little context to work with, but this one just made sense. River always struck him as a storybook hero. Yes, she loved to play the anti-hero, the attractive foil to his goody-two-shoes act, but she was the strong and silent type through and through. And the heroes? Well, in the stories they always seemed to win. So— despite his anxieties from before, while they were well rooted— it was only mildly surprising that River saved herself _and_ him for the second time since they’d first met. 

She was simply _amazing._

“— and Lethbridge is positively furious with you, you know. Just because you are friends, it does not mean that he will let you go running away scot free. I don’t care that you broke in, but you were _caught_ this time and even though Simeon is the biggest fish in the pan, that doesn’t keep you from getting all crispy-fried either—!”

He wondered where River was now: probably flaunting her reclaimed money like there wouldn’t be an entire police district on the hunt for her. For all he knew, she might have gone back to kissing men in alleys just for the fun of it. 

Someday, he would have to go out and find her again. He _had_ to find her. Besides, she owed him an apology for getting him into that horrible mess— or, being fair, half of that mess— and for just being difficult in general.

He held his stitched-up side tenderly. That could all wait.

“—wonder if I should ever let you go places alone. It’s as if you need me there with you one hundred per cent of the time to protect you. Or that River girl. Though she clearly had something to do with all of this; but at least she could keep you from stumbling over your own shoestrings—”

For now, he just needed to bear his punishments.

_A healed gunshot wound, several more scoldings, and three months of prison time later…_

It was good to be sitting in the office again. 

John sat atop his desk, throwing wads of paper at the corner bin, soaking in the beautiful orange-and-brown motif of the room. Better than a dull square cell, anyway. The scar in his side was fading a little, and Lethbridge had begun to forgive his misdemeanor, giving him the permission to start consulting again within a few weeks’ time. Even more wonderful, Idris had finally stopped being so clingy for the first time since his release. 

Life, in summary, wasn’t half bad.

Now, speaking of Idris, she had been standing against the wall, filtering through the evening post. With very little hesitation, she sent one particular envelope soaring through the air to smack John in the back of the head. The man scowled by reflex and, reaching behind him, fished for the envelope on the desktop. Picking up the item gingerly, he inspected it: no return address, an envelope thick enough that the inside content could not be seen… and a kiss for a decorative seal.

As intrigued as he was suspicious, he slid his finger under a gap in the envelope and tore it open, methodically unfolding the letter within, which read the following:

_Hello, Sweetie:_

_I’ll first start off by saying ‘I’m sorry’. I hope you’ve recovered well._

_Secondly, I would have dropped in for a visit, but until the smoke settles and the right people are persuaded, I can’t exactly risk sticking around. (On that note, we should meet in Barcelona some time.) I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other often enough after this letter is sent. After all, we make quite the team._

_Until the next ‘job,’_

_River_

Despite his better judgment against leading letters, John found himself smiling.

A team indeed.


End file.
